


No One Lives Forever

by PaxVobis



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Charles Is Very Cultured, Drinking & Talking, Drunk Charles, Gen, Getting Real Sloppy, Grief/Mourning, Harvard University, Male Bonding, Male Friendship, One Shot, Pool & Billiards, Puns & Word Play, Season/Series 03, Spoilers, Toki Wartooth Genius Mixologist, Wakes & Funerals, cocktails, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 07:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10239368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: One shot request.  Charles takes a day off to attend an old friend's funeral, and returns to Mordhaus that night keen to take his mind off it all with some familiar faces.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steamed Jellyfish](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Steamed+Jellyfish).



On that Wednesday, not particularly spectacular in any other way apart from the heavy rains that drove against the side of Mordhaus, Offdensen cancelled their morning meeting and everyone agreed that was profoundly out of character.

They ended up in the board room cum dining hall cum whatever anyway, gathered around the table, as if none of them had gotten the memo.  They had gotten the memo.  It had just been delivered midst-hangover so, well, nothing was processed until long after the boredom had set in and Nathan had looked around and asked, uselessly, “Uh, where’s Charles?”

No one knew.  Raking his chair back with a screech, Nathan had gone to the doorway and dragged in the first klokateer within reach.  The little goofballs where everywhere, he didn’t have to stray far – “Where’s Charles?”

“Uhhh - - ”  The klokateer had frantically checked a communicator, freaking out inside at being alone with his favourite band, all of them looking at him while his peers gawked from beyond the open doorway, “He has that funeral today, my lords.  Mr Barlow…?”

“Barlow?”  Nathan’s brow furrowed in thought.  “I didn’t hear about no funeral.  Who the fuck does Charles know who’s died?”

“I already told you,” stammered the klokateer, but the guys had other things on their minds.

“ _Ja_ , dat guy has no friends,” said Skwisgaar, speaking over the man, “Who ams more important dan us anyways?  Huh?”

Nathan dragged the klokateer closer by his jersey, breathing hot in his face as if asking him directly to own responsibility for their manager’s shirking.  “Yeah, exactly.  We’re his bosses, we didn’t give him the day off.  He has a meeting with us.  He’s supposed to be _here_ – ”

“Nathan.  Please, ah, unhand that employee.”

Nathan released the klokateer automatically, raising his eyes to the manager approaching down the corridor.  All in black.  He looked even sharper than usual, as if every edge of him had been held against a whetstone; the seams of his suit like folded paper, the white cuffs, the black tie looking foreign where he was so used to a slash of red like a cut throat.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?  We didn’t give you a day off,” growled Nathan, though he was already defeated, and Charles stopped before him, knowing this.

“It’s, ah, in my contract actually.  Holiday accrued, long service leave.  Ah… personal leave.  You can check it if you like.”

“But you’ve never, like… _taken_ it.  Like… gone on holiday.”  Nathan sounded so helpless that Charles was not at all surprised to see Pickles pop up by his side, quickly flanked by Murderface, the curious gazes of the Scandinavians joining them soon over their shoulders.  Pickles crossed his arms defiantly.

“Sure, it’s in your contract, whatever.  You also gotta apply, right?  We’re your bosses, we didn’t approve nothin,” he snapped, and Charles looked placidly down at him.

“I don’t have to put in an application for, ah, bereavement leave.  Actually.”  His eyes darted up to Skwisgaar as the Swede, towering over his peers, spoke next.

“ _Ja_ , but Nathan’s right, you nevers takes leave!  Why’s now, huh?”

Charles seemed to ignore him, staring into his chest suddenly, and Skwisgaar riled at the defiance.

“Who’s this ‘Warlow’, I never hears of him!  Can’ts be so importants – maybe, Mr Orfdensson, you shoulds be, uhh, reconsiderings yous priorities?  Huh?”

Charles stared a hole into Skwisgaar’s chest, and when he spoke, spoke as though the words were printed on paper.

“Barlow, he’s a novelist of some fame, Skwisgaar.  He was a colleague of mine from Harvard.  Had a heart attack.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” said Pickles, bitterly, still glaring.  “You out to see him much?  ‘Business trips’, Charlie?  Who the fuck – ”

But Charles at that moment reacted, which is what they’d hoped for, facing the gathered band with a look of glacial collapse.  “No.  I think the last time I saw him was, ah, ’97.  _Quite_ some time ago.  I’ve been too busy to see him since but, ah – really haven’t even thought of him, if I’m honest, in several years bar sparse written correspondence but the funeral – it’s a big affair and I… should make an appearance.”

He lowered his gaze, awkwardly, in defeat whilst all the while knowing they could do nothing to stop him leaving.  But there was a defeat there, an admission of emotions and thus of weakness, “We were in, ah, Signet together.  Graduated same year.  Hmm.  I even, ah.  I edited his first manuscript, that was… ’85, I think.  So.”

“That’s ten fuckin years.  More'n.  You don’t gotta go to the funeral of someone you ain’t seen in ten years - - ”  But Nathan was not getting through to him.  Dramatically, he looked away.  “Whatever.”

“Yous so _old_ ,” chipped in Toki from the back, not to be left out.

“Okay.”  Charles looked from one man to the next, reading their dismissal, and then slowly pulled away from them.  “If you’ve got nothing else to add, ah… meeting’s cancelled.  I’ll be back this evening.  Media funerals are always whole day affairs, you know.”

Pickles leaned on the stone doorway, watching the manager leave like a square of void cut out of the corridor, flat black.  “Takin the jet, Charlie?” he called out after him, and Charles didn’t even turn back.

“Uh huh, sure am.”

“Right.  Have a nice time jerkin off all them suits, Chuck, we’ll catch ya later.”

But he’d already pulled back into the room with the rest of the band, and missed the last cutting stare shot back at him with the unwelcome nickname.

 

...

 

That evening, they were in the Mordhaus bar.  One of them.  Pool table going, several drinks deep.  And Charles appeared again, like a fucking corpse, sucked of his blood, propped up in the doorway like he’d risen up out of his coffin (something he did, often, in Nathan’s nightmares – and his own, as well).

“You guys been, ah… drinking?” was the first thing he said, and they all looked at him, still hurt from the morning’s betrayal.  Because that was what it was.  A _betrayal_.  How dare he leave them in a lurch – here was Pickles, face down on the table, _what a cuuuuuunt - -_

Murderface, _he doeschn’t give a schit!  Schould fire the old fogey - -_

But Nathan had stepped in.  _It’s just one day.  Fuck.  Who even cares._   _Whatever_.  Though it was woefully obvious, Nathan cared, and deeply.

Pickles was looking at Charles, pool cue at the ready, and in his head were the words, _what a cuuuuuunt_ but what he said was, “Yeah.  So what, douchebag?  Do we got a gig or something tomorrow?”  He snorted, and clipped the white ball straight into Nathan’s colour, swearing under his breath.  “Well, we're not fuckin stopping so - - ”

“Ah, no,” said Charles, weirdly, a worried crease in his brow.  “You’re fine.  I just wanted to, ah… join you.”

There was complete silence except for the radio as Charles crossed the room to Toki, standing behind the bar, trying and failing to mix himself some cocktail of his own concoction.  The manager leaned on the other side of the bar, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, composing himself, and then looked up at the Norwegian nervously, erratically swishing the shaker in his hands under the scrutiny of his manager. 

“Ah, just… give me some of that,” said Charles, nodding at the shaker as he took one of the seats at the bar, and Toki pursed his lips strangely.  He was well aware the others hated his mixers.

“Um, you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m… ah, sure.  It’s, ah, port, right?”  Charles slumped, barely aware of the sound of Nathan’s cue clipping straight into the felt of the pool table, having been too busy staring at the manager to aim.

“That’s a scratch, dude.  Your turn’s over.”

“Fuck off.”  _Click._   This time Nathan got it, and Charles watched dejectedly as Toki shook the shaker once more and then hooked a second coupe glass down from the shelf.  Port didn’t go in coupe glasses.  Charles didn’t have the strength to protest.

“ _Ja_ , ams port, and, uhh…”  Toki shrugged.  “Well, ams surprise.  I calls it.  Vinmonopolooza.  Ha-ha.”

This was apparently very funny in Norwegian, and even Skwisgaar snorted, but Charles did not get it.  Toki poured him a glass, over ice, and it definitely smelled of port.  Charles regarded the coupe glass pushed in front of him, and felt dirty.  “Thanks,” he said.

The Vinmonopolooza was every type of wine.

Together.

Charles realised this when he took a sip, his mouth pressed to a thin line in utter horror.  Still, he took another sip.

“How was the funeral, Charlie?” asked Pickles, pitying the poor man, having to drink one of Toki’s concoctions, and Charles’ shoulder lifted in a shrug.  No answer for a while, until it became apparent they were waiting for him to reply, and then:

“Drank a lot.”

“Ohh!”  Pickles laughed, handing back the cue to Nathan.  “Irish wake, huh, Charlie?”

“No wake.  Jewish.”

The drummer raised his gaze to the hulking singer as he lined up to obliterate him, and then missed the ball completely.  “That’s another scratch dude.  So, uh, what?”

Charles was almost face down in his drink now.  “Bunch of the, ah, old boys went to the Lincoln’s and… ah…”  He downed all of the coupe glass, and placed it back in front of Toki.

“Anothers?”

“Please.”

“I does it proper this time, you see.”

As Toki fussed with their glasses, Charles heard Murderface snuffle from his seat.  “Good look, turning up to work schitfached, Charlesch.  I schaid, we should fire him - - ”

“Murderface,” said Pickles, pulling him back in check.  “We’re not gonna fire you, man.  Sounds like a rough deal.  Sorry for your loss, or something.”

Charles didn’t reply, just watched as Toki furnished his glass with _an olive on a stick.  Absolutely_ god damn _not._

Olive.  Ice cubes.  Coupe glass.  Toki smiled warmly at him, the manager following him with his eyes as he added the shots of wine to the shaker.  “ _Me går langt tilbake til de gamle dager, når alt var svart kvitt_ ,” he sang sweetly, barely audible over the stereo and Nathan and Pickles bickering about another ‘scratch’, “ _Mr. Kaizer, hans Constanze og meg…”_

Charles didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded nice.  “Cheers, Toki.  Thanks.”

“You gonna keep drinking, Charlie?” asked Pickles suddenly out of his argument, whipping around with the cue in his excitement, and Charles shrugged a shoulder.

“It’s just a funeral,” he said, which didn’t make much sense, but in reality he was only just processing the last question.

“Uh, yeah.  You been to plenty of those,” said Pickles, “You’ve been to your own.”

“Yeah.  I’m going to keep going,” replied Charles, and stared into the glass, dreading the olive. 

Nathan was wrinkling his nose by Pickles’ side, lining up for another shot.  “He didn’t go to his own, that’s messed up.”

And Charles blinked, catching up.  “What?  No.  I, ah… wasn’t even in that coffin.”

“Good.”  Nathan hit the white ball, and bounced one of Pickles’ coloured balls off the wall of the pool table, and then commented, “None of us cried when you died, just so you know.”

“No,” repeated Charles, and took a risky sip of Toki’s drink, the Norwegian watching him expectantly.  It was ferociously horrible.  “I ordered the recording from the ABC when I got back.  Watched it later.”

A beat.  Then the manager said, “What?” having caught up with them again, turning on his stool to glance back at Nathan.  Nathan had lied.  They were all suddenly painfully aware.  Every tear pooled up in the corners of their eyes and sniffed stubbornly back was one Charles had seen.  _What a cuuuuuunt - -_

“Nothing,” grunted Nathan, and finally potted a ball.

“Hey!  That wasn’t your turn, douchebag!”

“It was!”

“Ams dis true, you go to lots of funeral?” asked Toki innocently, and Charles kept drinking just to make him proud.

“Ah, I guess.  You, Toki?”

“I onlies been to kloksateers funeral, ams different.  Ands I guess of mine dad…”

A somber moment passed between them, and Charles looked up, meeting his eyes.

“Ah, well.  If it helps, I also buried my father, Toki,” he volunteered, and Toki shrugged through his pain.

“I guesses so.”

“Oh?  How?”

“Yous real old.”  Another shrug.  Charles stared back into the drink.

“Right.  Of course.”  He didn’t feel like expanding on the subject.

After too long, “You likes it?” asked Toki, and Charles just nodded to him.

“Yeah, it’s… ah… very interesting, I guess.  Keep ‘em coming.”

His words were greeted by a low whistle from Pickles, having finally won the pool game – he always did, except against Murderface, or when the others cheated – and didn’t honour it with the look up.  “Gonna go hard, Charlie?”

“Uh huh.”

“Gonna get _real sloppy?_ ”

“… uh huh.”

“Skwisgaar.”  Pickles stood proudly, in control, and leaned on his pool cue as the Swede raised from his seat.  “Do us the honour and wrest the Devil’s Springs outta Toki’s cold dead fists from behind the bar, please?”  And Skwisgaar relished the opportunity to do so, prowling to the bar and shoving Toki aside.  He reached below the bar and withdrew a bottle of clear liquid, the label all white.

“ _Devil’s Springs Premium_ ,” read Charles from the label, slumped as he was before it.  “ _Four times distilled…_ ”

Pickles was suddenly at his shoulder.  The rest of the band looming over him.  “160 proof.  You read right, dude.”

And Skwisgaar uncapped the bottle, smirking, and filled up Charles’ empty coupe glass nearly to the brim.  Charles slumped further, then put his hand around the neck with a resigned sigh and raised his glass as the others helped themselves to glasses.  “ _Libiamo, libiamo ne'lieti calici_ ,” he toasted, and glanced around at them to empty stares. “La Traviata.”

Pickles clinked his tumbler against the side of his glass.  “ _Fuck you, I’m drunk_ , _fuck you, I’m drunk_ ,” he said around his smirk, “Ancient Irish American wisdom.  Bottoms up, dudes.”

And none of them remembered anything else that night.


End file.
